


Blurred Edges

by creepy_shetan



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Community: comment_fic, M/M, Trauma, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, subverted headcanon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-02-03 12:09:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1744175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/creepy_shetan/pseuds/creepy_shetan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He may be screwed up in the head -- he may even feel guilty -- but Clint isn't under any delusions about what he's doing or why.</p><p>(Originally posted 2013/2/26 as a fill for a prompt.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blurred Edges

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lasairfhiona](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lasairfhiona/gifts).



Clint knows exactly how he got here.

He’d drunk more than his fair share, and yet a frustrating part of his brain refused to shut down. Thankfully it was lurking in the background and therefore not quite a buzz-kill; it just meant that he needed something else, something to focus on for a while.

The way that Thor stared at his throat whenever Clint swallowed gave the archer a perfectly awful idea.

He tested the theory slowly, not consuming as much as he acted; although, the blond didn’t seem to notice Clint’s decreased rate of drinking, considering his unabashed attention to Clint’s increased area of exposed skin. 

It turned out that even Thor and his godly arms couldn’t resist the sight of Clint’s muscles, which were clearly outlined under his worn T-shirt, especially at the sleeves. Clint realized Thor was trying his damnedest to resist the touch, however, and he had to hide a smirk by downing a quick shot.

After that, all it took was another swallow and a lazy lick of his lips as Clint made eye contact. 

Thor killed the rest of his pint, slammed down the glass, and practically carried Clint to his (temporary-yet-always-available-when-he-visited-Earth) bedroom.

They made short work of their clothes, mostly aided by Thor’s complete disregard for stitching, reinforced or not. Clint would have to think up a good explanation for the state of his SHIELD-issue tactical training cargos later. Or maybe he’d be doing R&D a favor by reporting that they were not, in fact, Asgardian-proof. 

Clint closed his eyes and lost himself in the feel of long hair between his fingers and a bruising grip on his skin. He could pretend each strand was black and each hand was slender. Whenever he felt the scratch of stubble he scratched back with blunt nails. He didn’t let his hands roam any more than necessary; there was no use in learning the curves and angles of this body when he was tracing another form in his head. The last thing Clint needed was to know the differences, let alone to dwell on juxtaposition.

So instead, he focused on the similarities. The weight didn’t bother Clint, or the strength, but it just didn’t feel right. Maybe it wasn’t wrong enough. It definitely wasn’t rough enough.

Leaning in, Clint used his mouth to feel his way along a collar bone out to a broad shoulder. His tongue’s ministrations elicited a low moan until Clint abruptly bit into the flesh with a savage growl. There was an indignant hiss in his ear, then the feel of a forceful thrust and a painful headboard immediately after left Clint seeing two distinct sets of stars behind his eyelids. Even when he cracked his eyes open a little, all he could see were blurs in the dark. Another deep sharp thrust and a breathy grunt caused his eyelashes to flutter uncontrollably, so he gave up on seeing anything and resumed imagining.

Clint gasped and squirmed, snaked one hand back into the long soft locks as he licked the tender skin still close to his lips. A half-hearted apology for what he did -- and for what he planned to do next. 

Apparently, sucking an already colorful hickey into a prolonged existence while gripping a fistful of hair and scratching angry red marks down one alien god prince’s spine had a very, _very_ similar effect on his brother. 

That is, until said brother not only quickened his pace, but also sought out Clint’s mouth with his own. Clint was too surprised to even try to stop the deepening of the kiss. This isn’t what should happen. He should be biting and sucking back, maybe to mirror everything on Clint’s shoulder, or he could attack the side of his neck or his collar bone or behind his ear or _anywhere else_ but not--

Clint grimaced at the scratchy beard. He stilled his hands as he felt the broad back under one palm and the bulk of an arm underneath his torso, up his neck to where its large hand supported the back of his head, warm fingers massaging the small bump there and holding him close as he swiped his tongue over Clint’s hard palate. He groaned, shivering.

It was too late now. They were both too close. He couldn’t push away and grab his ruined clothes and leave and let them each finish alone and later deal with that face and its questions. Alcohol may have enabled Clint to get in this situation, but it played only a tiny role compared to the main reason he was here. 

That reason, of course, was that he was absolutely screwed up in the head nowadays. If he couldn’t even enjoy a wonderfully breathtaking kiss while getting fucked senseless anymore, then Clint needed to get that shit fixed soon.

He moved his hands to rest high on Thor’s chest, and pushed lightly. The open kiss broke fully, both breathing raggedly into the other’s face until Thor tensed, turning to lean his temple against Clint’s, an incoherent grumble hot in his ear.

When Clint had returned to his surroundings, he felt Thor begin to carefully move away. He halted, halfway still on top of Clint, at the tentative fingers combing his blond hair behind his ears and playing with the darker wet tips along his sweat-beaded neck. Clint stole a moment to pull in Thor for a slow deep kiss. The prince sagged into it, languid, before Clint held his face up to lightly trail kisses across his jaw and cheeks. (The facial hair wasn’t as off-putting as it had been earlier, thankfully.) 

He stopped, nudging Thor to open his eyes again and meet Clint’s gaze for the first time since they left their empty drinks in the lounge.

Clint knows he needs to get his shit together. He knows exactly why he’s here. He knows he needs to tell someone.

It doesn’t stop his throat from clamping shut as he sees the unmistakable hope within Thor’s clear blue eyes. It doesn’t stop the guilt twisting in his gut as he still feels a craving for a similar yet wholly different alien god prince who can only break Clint further. It doesn’t stop his mind from forming the thought that perhaps he doesn’t want to be judged by people and perhaps he doesn’t care if he falls apart into a mess so shattered he can’t be repaired if it means--

Clint could see his vision blur around the edges just as the blond pressed against his side drifted off to sleep, but this time it couldn’t be blamed on liquor or lust.

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt: Avengers: Clint/+ (anyone): Absolutely screwed Up  
> The theme: Cocktails  
> Originally posted [here](http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/409489.html?thread=67201937#t67201937).  
> I only own the writing.
> 
> For the curious... Even I feel bad for Thor in this one.


End file.
